


One Hour and the Whiskey's Sour

by EA_Lakambini



Series: Orbital Resonance: GOC2020 [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Because no way will Aziraphale let anyone touch Crowley, But it doesn't get to that point, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Female Crowley, Good Omens Celebration 2020, Light Angst, M/M, Partying, Rescue, Sexual Harassment, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24033340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EA_Lakambini/pseuds/EA_Lakambini
Summary: Crowley gets some unwanted attention while on assignment. Aziraphale steps in.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Orbital Resonance: GOC2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1725724
Comments: 6
Kudos: 85
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	One Hour and the Whiskey's Sour

**Author's Note:**

> Back to some slightly darker stuff, but it ends up (mostly) okay!  
> Rated it as teen and up for harassment, some drug use, and swearing.
> 
> Prompt: rescue.

“I told you, you didn’t have to come with me, angel,” Crowley groused, her heels clicking sharply against the sidewalk. “This is just going to be a quick temptation, convince some bloke to make a move, away from God’s light and between some chick’s legs, and then I can head out.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Considering that this is a seminarian that you’re after, it’s certainly in my side’s interests to thwart this particular agenda of yours.” He tugged uncomfortably at his cardigan; he knew that the club Crowley was headed was patronized by a younger set, and he had thought to adjust his attire accordingly to corduroy pants and a cotton dress shirt. He felt almost naked without his overcoat and waistcoat. Crowley had taken one look at him and had shaken her head, muttering something about _at least it’s now within the last three decades_ or something or other.

“When’ve I ever had an agenda that your side didn’t feel like thwarting?” Crowley replied. She was dressed more sharply, wearing a tight faux leather dress with a snakeskin pattern, paired with blood-red stiletto heels. Her hair was long, and teased up in some kind of knot at the back of her head, with some coppery strands left loose to frame her face, which was currently made-up with dark lipstick and even darker eyeshadow. Aziraphale wondered how Crowley could feel even remotely comfortable in the get-up; he didn’t see her often manifest her corporation as female, but he imagined that it didn’t have to require this much in terms of tight-fitting straps and footwear that could be classified as a weapon.

“Anyway, this is the place,” Crowley continued, slowing to a stop in front of a rather grimy looking building. The windows were tinted darkly but Aziraphale could make out the occasional gleam from strobe lights and lasers. The door was solid and opaque except for a small slit near the top; Crowley rapped her knuckles against the door, and a pair of eyes looked at the two of them searchingly, before the door slid open. The thumping sounds of fast music and the chatter of people spilled out. “It’s not quite Portland Place, my scene, but I suppose you can survive for an hour, angel?” Crowley said over her shoulder, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the din.

“I’m pretty sure I can manage ‘your scene’, my dear,” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes before following Crowley through the dimly lit entrance. “Really now, what’s the worst that could happen?”

*~*~*~*~*

Sure enough, Crowley had been right in saying that it would be short work for the demon. Aziraphale supposed it was unfair advantage, considering that the environment they were in practically advertised humans to sin. Crowley had found the young man easily enough – he was the only one in the place drinking something that wasn’t alcoholic. With Crowley leaning towards him, a glass in her thin fingers and a smile on her face, it was really only a matter of time. The demon probably didn’t have to do much at this point.

Though Aziraphale had done a few miracles to help the man remember his vocation, Crowley had then skillfully drawn the man towards a group of women near the dance floor, swiveled her hips next to him suggestively, and the man had practically flung away his (metaphorical) clerical collar in his desire to get closer. The other women clustered around him, and Crowley smoothly stepped away once he saw the man make the first move to wrap an arm around a barely-clad waist.

Crowley smirked as she sat down in the booth where Aziraphale had settled himself with a glass of frankly distasteful whiskey. Before she even raised a hand to call on a waiter, one appeared at her elbow with some garishly pink cocktail – the kind Aziraphale knew she hated – with a murmur that it came from “the man from two tables down”. Crowley shrugged and took the drink anyway without bothering to look.

“Didn’t your side invent Cosmopolitans?” she said to Aziraphale, taking a sip and shuddering slightly. “Y’know, make a drink be less alcohol and more sugary fruity whatever when it became clear you couldn’t stop women from partaking?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Actually, I think _your_ side came up with it, considering that the combination means that the woman would end up ordering too much and end up with a really unsatisfying hangover.”

Crowley laughed, but drained it anyway. “Could be, yeah, it’s disgusting,” she said, setting down the empty glass with a thunk. “Let me just get some actual alcohol before we leave, yeah? I don’t think I’ve ever been this sober at a temptation. I’ll be back to you soon, angel; don’t miss me too much,” she said, before standing up to head over to the bar. Aziraphale watched her go, her distinctive strut emphasized further by the heels she was wearing, the dress hugging the curves of her body almost intimately. She tossed her head suddenly to look straight at him, and even behind her dark glasses, Aziraphale saw her wink at him, a mischievous smile on her face.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and turned away. He now wasn’t quite sure which holy man Crowley had directed his temptations to.

*~*~*~*~*

Aziraphale looked up quickly from his glass of crappy whiskey, suddenly sensing that Crowley was in trouble. It was one of those things that he’d developed over centuries of working alongside the demon; it was like an uncomfortable tug at the back of his head, an alarm bell that Crowley may have gone a bit too far over the line of safety. He scanned the bar quickly and found her near the end of the long bar; she was nursing a glass of something amber-colored, next to a man with close-cropped hair, dressed in layers of leather, practically looming over her.

When Crowley turned to hand over some cash to the bartender, Aziraphale suddenly saw the skinhead drop something into Crowley’s glass. Crowley then turned back to the man and pushed him on the shoulder to get him out of her way, but not before downing all the liquor from the glass that the man had just mixed _something_ into.

This was no longer fun and games. Aziraphale stood up quickly and made his way to the bar in four or five strides. The whiskey he had drank left him feeling a bit unsteady, but the alcohol in his blood could not tamp down the rage he was feeling towards this human who was clearly preparing to assault Crowley.

“My dear, I do believe it’s time for us to go,” Aziraphale said quickly upon reaching Crowley. Both she and the man next to her turned at the sound of his voice. The man looked Aziraphale up and down with a disbelieving look, and smirked. “Doll, funny joke you’re playing. You know this piece of shit here?”

Aziraphale looked past the man at Crowley. _Come on, we have to go NOW, this isn’t safe._ She raised an eyebrow, but apparently understood; she straightened up from where she was leaning against the bar and rolled her shoulders. “Yeah, all right, let’s blow this joint; this place is lame anyway,” she said to Aziraphale, ignoring the other man. This apparently did not amuse the skinhead, who reached out to grab Crowley’s wrist. “You’re not going anywhere, little red; the party’s just getting started,” he leered.

“Pardon me, I don’t think you heard correctly, but she’s leaving _now._ ” Aziraphale said sharply, and there was some steeliness in his voice now. The skinhead laughed, and actually tugged harder on Crowley’s arm. “Hah, with you? In your wank-off dreams. Fuck off, dipshit, she’s going home with me to get some actual fun. Not with some nitwit who probably hasn’t figured out how to use a prick, if he’s even got one. Come on now, baby,” The man reached to muss at Crowley’s hair; the demon flinched and pulled back, but the man’s hand snagged on her sunglasses, knocking them onto the floor. Her yellow serpentine eyes flashed in the dim lights.

“Oh God, I got myself a freak in the sheets!” The man crowed loudly, his hand suddenly reaching to smack Crowley’s backside. Crowley teetered slightly on her feet, almost stumbling forward, and that was it for Aziraphale. “FUCK OFF,” he said to the skinhead, divine anger beginning to color his voice with a deep timbre like rolling thunder. “She’s _mine._ ”

Aziraphale pulled her firmly towards him, wrapping an arm securely around her waist. “Very sorry about this, my dear,” he whispered into the demon’s ear. Crowley looked at him for a moment, before tossing a scathing look back at the skinhead, who clearly was not backing down. “I’m sorry about this, too,” she whispered, before kissing him soundly.

Aziraphale could taste cheap rum and lipstick on Crowley’s lips, but there was also a hint of cloves, and something dark and smoky. He was keenly aware of the sweat, softening the layers of fabric between them both, and the almost burning heat of the demon’s body. The curve of her bosom pressed close against his chest, and he could feel her heartbeat pounding against his. Crowley, true to form, did not seem fazed at all, and pulled Aziraphale closer to her, tugging firmly on his shirt. Her lips opened underneath his and she lightly drew her tongue across Aziraphale’s bottom lip, and _that_ was certainly a sensation that would be branding itself in the angel’s memory.

All too soon, however, Crowley broke off the kiss, and Aziraphale could only taste the sourness of the whiskey he had drunk. She looked at him, uncertainty and what almost looked like the beginning of an apology coloring her golden eyes, then quickly spun to glare at the other man.

“I prefer someone who can actually do more with his mouth than just shoot off shitty lines and too much saliva,” Crowley spat at the skinhead, who now looked shocked and almost disgusted. “Move along now, _little boy_.” She hissed at him, letting a bit of her demonic form manifest – and _that_ was certainly enough to make the man turn tail and retreat to the back of the club – before turning back to Aziraphale. She blinked back at him in mild confusion, before quickly stepping away and picking up her sunglasses from the floor, putting them back on. Aziraphale dropped his hands to his sides, his cheeks suddenly feeling warm.

“Well, uh, that was a thing,” Crowley said awkwardly, leaning back on the bar and avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. “Yeah, y’know those idiots; won’t respect a girl saying no on her own but they’ll back off once a girl’s another guy’s property. Bloody arseholes; I probably could have cut him down to size if I were in the mood. You didn’t have to get involved, angel.”

“He put something in your drink,” Aziraphale murmured. “I know you can protect yourself, my dear, but I didn’t want to take a chance on your safety.” Crowley sighed. “That explains it; I wouldn’t normally feel this drunk after less than ten shots. I thought it was just the shitty alcohol; I haven’t had booze this low-quality since the 14th century. I should probably sober up,” she replied, while trying to take a few steps away from the bar – and promptly falling against Aziraphale’s chest.

“I’m not certain if sobering up will also work on whatever he drugged you with, my dear,” Aziraphale said worriedly. “Let’s just get you home, shall we? I’ve had enough of this place.” He shifted slightly so she could lean her weight on him. As quickly as he could, he made their way out of the club, and, with a quick miracle, back to the safety of his bookshop.

*~*~*~*~*

“Ugh, I’m glad that’s over,” Crowley groaned. “People were ordering the most horrendous drinks for me, and I swear stilettos over 4 inches could probably rival whatever torture Hastur’s been trying out Downstairs nowadays,” She leaned her head back to rest on the arm of the sofa, before taking off her sunglasses and pressing a hand to her eyes.

Aziraphale sat in his usual armchair across from her. The comment dissolved into silence, and he wasn’t sure what to say; he was currently lost in his own thoughts. Very rarely did he let his rage take over into action when humans were involved, but when he saw what could happen to Crowley, there had been no second guessing. No hesitation to guard, to protect, to keep Crowley by his side, to do something… that he _wanted._

And the silence was suddenly broken, when Crowley looked over to him, eyes soft and almost vulnerable.

“Aziraphale… thanks. Make no mistake, it was a shitty place and I’m sorry you got caught up in it, you _really_ shouldn’t have, but… I’m glad you were there. I mean – I always am,” Crowley said slowly. She twisted her fingers in a lock of her hair, in the way that Aziraphale knew she did whenever she felt uncomfortable. He tried for a comforting smile. “Of course, my dear. Besides, it was hardly as bad as the Bastille, although that horrid music could give the French Revolution a run for the money. So I suppose we’re even on the rescue tally, aren’t we?”

Crowley laughed at that. “Yes, sounds about right. My knight in sensible corduroy,” she drawled, before stifling a yawn. “D’you mind if I crash for a couple hours? ‘M not feeling like doin’ a walk of shame back to my flat at only 3 in the morning; any self-respecting demon would be out partying ‘til at least 4.”

Aziraphale laughed lightly. “Maybe you’re just getting too old for the party scene, Crowley.”

Crowley rolled her eyes. “Says the one who had to ask me what EDM actually _is._ Just forget about tonight, and don’t stay up on my account, angel, I’ll be fine,” she said, while stretching out further on the sofa, closing her eyes.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply, but the words died on his tongue. On any other plane of reality, no demon would allow himself or herself to be so vulnerable in front of an angel. Yet, here was Crowley, original tempter of humanity, one of the oldest demons in Hell… no sunglasses on, fiery hair now settled around one shoulder, the delicate column of her neck exposed, soft lips parted slightly. _Oh_ , those lips. Aziraphale had gone whole millennia without ever knowing the touch of those lips on his own, and now he wouldn’t ever be able to forget. Not that he wanted to, if he was being honest with himself here.

He didn’t think he’d ever be able to see her like this. Nor did he think he would ever be able to touch her, not in the way they had just an hour ago.

Aziraphale sighed to himself as he draped a blanket over Crowley’s sleeping form. He allowed himself one moment to lightly stroke her hair with a feather-light touch. He hoped that, someday, it wouldn’t take crap music, crappier alcohol, or an attempt on their lives for him to experience the feel of the demon’s lips on his again.

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAHHH they really just won't admit things to each other, these idiots
> 
> Thanks for dropping by!


End file.
